Wish You Were Here
by Joodiff
Summary: When an unwell Boyd finally asks her for help, Grace ends up reflecting on both the past and the future as well as trying to deal with the present... T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

 **Wish You Were Here**

by Joodiff

* * *

 _We're just two lost souls  
Swimming in a fish bowl,  
Year after year,  
Running over the same old ground.  
What have we found?  
The same old fears.  
_

\- Pink Floyd

* * *

 **Introduction**

It starts with just touch of gravel evident in the deep voice. Everyone notices, but no-one comments. The next day, the voice is sandpaper-rough, and wherever its owner goes, so goes a dry, barking cough. Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd is ill. The world does not immediately stop turning, but it's such an unusual phenomenon that it causes a sudden flurry of excited betting not just in the CCU's semi-subterranean squad room, but throughout the entire building. Officers from completely different units unexpectedly find various spurious reasons to visit the basement-dwellers, and every new scrap of information obtained is quickly disseminated, causing the odds on different outcomes to fluctuate wildly. Someone in CID, housed up on the building's top floor, even has a ridiculous thousand-to-one chance on Boyd requiring the services of an undertaker before the month is over. It's a long shot, but worth a tenner. Ten grand buys a lot of beer, after all.

His immediate colleagues aren't much more compassionate or understanding. They complain loudly and defensively about the risks of contagion and cross-contamination, and by the beginning of the third day not even Grace will sit next to him during the customary early morning team meeting. In truth, Boyd does not look well. He's pale, he's sweaty, and there's an unnaturally bright, feverish sort of look in his eyes. Being a man, he also complains. A lot. And when the coughing, shivering and grumbling, all achieved whilst managing to look uncharacteristically sorry for himself, completely fail to elicit any kind of meaningful sympathy from his hard-hearted team, he gets even more cantankerous and attempts to start shouting. Which, inevitably, only causes him to cough and splutter even more.

It's Felix whose strained patience finally snaps mid-meeting, surprising her wide-eyed co-workers. She delivers a sudden harsh and irritable, "For God's _sake_ , Boyd, you're not on death's door; you've got a touch of man 'flu. If you _really_ feel that ill, stop bloody moaning and just _go home_."

And, to everyone's complete astonishment, not long afterwards he does, thus proving beyond any reasonable doubt just how unwell he is. His unprecedented pre-lunch departure leaves a bewildered Stella a hundred quid richer thanks to the stalwart efforts of the building's enthusiastic unofficial bookmakers. It quickly transpires that she completely ignored Spencer's sage advice and defiantly invested a single pound coin on the absurd hundred-to-one long shot of Boyd eventually giving in and taking sick leave. Consequently, it's drinks all round for the thrilled members of the CCU's core team after work, with no-one feeling even the slightest twinge of guilt as they toast her unexpected good fortune.

After a couple of quiet, blissful days in the unit's abnormally calm lair, it's Grace – who is undoubtedly the noblest and certainly the bravest of them all – who finally takes it upon herself to check that Boyd hasn't died a lonely and premature death. She telephones him at home after work, and arrives the next morning to report that yes, he's ailing but still very much alive, and that Felix's impatient diagnosis was essentially correct. According to his doctor, Boyd does indeed have 'flu – the full-blooded, genuine article. And the state he seems to be in, she tells her colleagues, he's not going to be back at his desk for at least another week, possibly more.

Perhaps they should celebrate their unforeseen good luck, and then simply make the most of the glorious stretch of tranquillity ahead, but surprisingly they don't. Their missing leader may be gruff, he may be quick-tempered and often hard to please, but he's also engagingly eccentric, ferociously loyal, and the energetic main driving force behind everything the Met's dedicated Cold Case Unit does. None of them will openly admit it, but his continued absence is extremely disconcerting, and they all, without exception, very quickly find that everyday working life in the basement is simply far too quiet and mundane without his forceful, unpredictable presence.

-oOo-

* * *

 **One**

"I'm bloody _dying_ here," the weak, hoarse voice on the other end of the telephone line protests, "have a heart, Grace…"

Staring out of her living room window at the quiet residential London street that has been her home for many, many years, Grace resists the temptation to give vent to a loud and heartfelt sigh. True, he does still sound tired and genuinely ill, but she isn't naïve enough to fall for the vocal equivalent of the artful and well-practiced little-boy-lost look that tends to work so well on unwitting members of the fairer sex. Still, it does feel a little like kicking an injured puppy as she retorts, "I'm _busy_ , Boyd."

"Remember you said that when you're weeping and wailing at my graveside."

This time she does sigh. "Do you have to be quite so ridiculously melodramatic?"

He immediately changes tack. "There's no food left in the house. Not a single scrap."

"Oh, stop it." Still gazing out at the street and the forbidding grey clouds scudding above it, Grace steels herself to ignore a strong and unwelcome twinge of guilt. He knows all the weak spots in her armour, and has no compunction about exploiting them. It's up to her to resist as best she can.

"It's true," a forlorn-sounding Boyd presses, "every damned cupboard is absolutely bare, and I've scarcely got the strength to stagger up and down the stairs, let alone to go out bloody shopping..."

Grace looks heavenward in a pained mixture of irritation, amusement, and despair. "And that's my problem because…?"

The response is mournful. "C'mon, Grace. Who the hell else is going to look after me?"

Damn. She just _knew_ she could rely on him to eventually play the one card in the metaphorical deck that somehow never fails. Bloody infuriating man. Still every bit as charismatic and good-looking as he ever was, unfortunately – but bloody infuriating nonetheless.

Far angrier with herself than she is with him, Grace glares into the mid-distance and mutters, "Oh, for God's _sake_ …"

Intentionally doleful, Boyd's voice wheedles, "Please…?"

And again, damn. _Damn_.

-oOo-

It's been several years since the difficult but strangely quiet conversation that signalled a drawn-out and painful personal parting of the ways, and yet somehow Grace still has a key to his house. She's not quite sure why it's still in her possession, but Boyd has never asked for it back, and she's never offered to return it. Perhaps it's symbolic of all the unspoken unfinished business that remains between them. Perhaps it represents a door between them that still stands slightly ajar, neither fully open nor fully closed. She doesn't know. But at least she can get into the house when there's no response to her tentative knocking. She assumes – correctly as it soon turns out – that he's upstairs asleep.

Nothing about the place seems to have altered very much since she stopped being a regular visitor. Same muted, elegant colour scheme; same ornaments, same furniture. Same sense that the occupier isn't home very much during waking hours. He's changed the position of the big cream sofa where they once used to settle on the far too rare number of quiet, intimate evenings when… Quickly, Grace blocks the melancholy chain of thought before it can take her to places it's far safer not to go. Better to concentrate on practicalities, she decides, and so she makes her way to the small, streamlined kitchen at the rear of the house. The wreckage and chaos she finds there convinces her that her lingering dark suspicions are wrong, that Boyd is not malingering. The evidence suggests he's just about summoned the strength required for very basic foraging expeditions and precious little else. Certainly, no effort has been made to tidy up afterwards, which is definitely atypical. She very quickly discovers that he wasn't lying to her – there really is nothing at all left anywhere that could feasibly be constructed into any kind of edible meal, however meagre.

The knowledge that she hasn't been duped into a fool's errand makes Grace feel a little more charitable towards him, even if it's Saturday afternoon, and therefore one of the few times in the week when she's normally guaranteed peace and quiet. In reality, she's in no way as unsympathetic as she is trying to pretend, even to herself. It's simply that… Well, simply that to her chagrin Peter Boyd remains an unfathomable weakness that could too easily once again leave her open to the kind of hurt she tells herself she's too old and jaded to deal with nowadays. He's many things, not all of them bad, but where women and relationships are concerned… Well, she learnt the hard way that he can be far too capricious and unreliable for her taste.

But despite it all she eventually ascends the stairs to check on him anyway.

At the end of the landing his bedroom door is wide open. It would surprise her far more if it were closed, given the incipient edge of claustrophobia she knows exists in him. She's never known him sleep behind a fully closed door, or without an open window. But this is not a good time, Grace knows, to be allowing such dangerous memories to surface. Coming to a halt in the doorway, she surveys the tidy, once-familiar room. Like the rest of the house, it hasn't changed very much. Same simple but good-quality furnishings, same quiet, masculine edge to the décor. Reluctantly, she lets her gaze move to the low, wide bed. The good news is that Boyd is indeed present, and is curled on his side, back firmly to the window, apparently soundly asleep. The bad news is that the bedcovers have slipped just far enough for a wide expanse of smooth bare chest to be on open display. A disconcerting sight; well-remembered and yet somehow taboo.

The house's food supplies having been replenished as requested, Grace is tempted to leave him undisturbed; to slip quietly away from the room, perhaps leaving a brief note for him to find later. But something – maybe the way he looks so vulnerable – stops her from doing so. Emotional vulnerability is one thing, something she's seen in him often enough, not least in the wake of their difficult mutual decision to return their relationship to a much more professional footing, but physical vulnerability… No, that isn't Boyd at all. He's tall and broad-shouldered, and despite the gathering years he carries himself with a pugnacious sort of confidence that gives him tremendous physical presence. Chiding herself for being so easily swayed, Grace grudgingly walks towards the bed. Fortunately or not, her cautious approach doesn't wake him.

She stops, eyes him in reflective silence for a long, bleak moment and then tries, "Boyd…? _Boyd_."

Finally, he stirs, dark eyes flickering open. He blinks, a little owlish, a little befuddled. Against her better judgement, Grace remembers the inevitable gentle, bemused sweetness of the man when he's quiet and sleepy, not yet fully awake. And that, more than anything else so far, causes a sharp, unwanted pang of resignation and regret. Everything that went wrong, everything that ended in a battlefield of endless rows and recriminations, and she's still foolish enough to –

"Grace…?" It's not much more than a confused mumble.

"Who else?" she inquires, looking down at him as he attempts to focus on her. Brusquer, she adds, "Well? How are you feeling?"

"Weak as a bloody kitten," he admits, clearing his throat. It doesn't seem to help much. His voice is still an unhealthy rasp as he asks, "Did you bring food?"

Filled with weary resignation, she nods. "Yes, I brought food."

"Thank Christ for that."

Grace regards him with sceptical disdain. "I suppose you expect me to cook it for you, too?"

Boyd coughs for a moment, his bare chest heaving alarmingly, before shaking his head. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." Most of her sharp asperity is still contrived. She studies him for a moment longer, taking in his lank, tousled hair – much greyer than it used to be – and sweaty pallor, and then comes to an unwilling decision. Sometimes maybe it's best to push away all the bittersweet memories and just be pragmatic. She shakes her head. "Look at the state of you. For heaven's sake, go and have a shower while there's someone here to make sure you're all right. I'll change the bed, and then I'll cook you something. But you better start giving some _serious_ thought to how you're going repay me for all this."

Boyd raises his eyebrows at that, and despite his sunken cheeks and clammy-looking forehead, just for a moment Grace is sure she catches sight of a stray gleam of something sly and mischievous in his eyes. A tiny hint of something roguish that she remembers far too well. Ignoring the unwanted physical effect it has on her, she gives him a haughty, baleful look in response. "Oh, grow up."

His face is a picture of bland innocence. "What?"

He knows damned well _what_. Of course he bloody does. Nowadays they are most _definitely_ just work colleagues who happen to also be reasonably good friends, but once upon a time not too long ago… She glowers down at him. "Just get up and go and have a shower, will you? Before I start questioning exactly why I'm being so nice to you."

Each word clear and deliberate, he asks, "You want me to get out of bed, Grace? Right now?"

She sighs, and then she scowls again. "You're _really_ testing my patience, Boyd."

"I'm just making absolutely sure," he tells her, deadpan.

Belatedly, Grace remembers something else from the many illicit nights they shared, a good number of them in this very room. Something significant about his sleeping habits that until now she's successfully managed to banish from her mind.

Barely convalescent or not, he's grinning even before he pushes back the covers and sits up.

She has remembered, of course, that he doesn't wear pyjamas to bed. Or shorts. Or anything else, for that matter. No, Peter Boyd generally sleeps _au naturel_ , and today, quite obviously, is no exception to that rule. Unable to avert her gaze in time, Grace realises that he is smirking at her in that insufferably smug, triumphant way that he always seems to manage so well. For her, it only makes matters even worse.

With as much icy dignity and composure as she can muster, she looks away and grumbles, "Oh, for God's _sake_. You're so damn childish."

The rebuke doesn't stop him laughing. Only the resulting protracted coughing fit does that.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

It must be something to do with frustrated maternal instinct, Grace decides. That, or rank stupidity. Either is possible. Why else would she be wasting her precious Saturday afternoon looking after a man who has survived perfectly well more-or-less completely on his own for so many bloody years? Since, in fact, the messy divorce that was already ancient history long before the fateful murder investigation that brought about their very first meeting. Sighing at her own foolishness, she makes her way back up the staircase bearing the promised meal on a light tray. She's still far more annoyed with herself and her own weakness than she is with Boyd, but she has no intention of admitting as much – and certainly not to _him_.

Except, when she reaches the bedroom, she finds that he is once again soundly asleep. She isn't surprised; she knows from experience exactly how debilitating a really bad case of 'flu can be. There are damp towels scattered on the bedroom floor, and as far as she can tell, he has simply staggered out of the small _en suite_ bathroom and collapsed straight onto the freshly-made bed, only haphazardly pulling the covers over himself before going back to sleep. Outside, the afternoon sun has broken through the sullen clouds, and where its light falls on his hair her attention is briefly caught by the few bright silver streaks that now shine amongst the much darker greys. To her annoyance, it suits him. _Really_ suits him.

Feeling uncomfortable and unsettled, Grace sets the tray down and hesitantly perches on the edge of the bed. She tries not to think about the number of nights she slept exactly where she's now sitting. The jarring familiarity of the plain wooden headboard and the elegant modern lamps placed on the simple bedside tables either side of the bed is disturbing, taking her back in time entirely against her will. She can't afford to dwell on it. Won't _let_ herself dwell on it.

Voice quiet and steady, she says, "Boyd."

Again, he wakes looking faintly bewildered, an expression that only seems to intensify as he registers her proximity. He shifts position slightly, runs his long fingers clumsily through his still-damp hair, and yawns. He shakes his head as if to clear it, and starts to sit up. "Sorry… must've fallen asleep."

"Here," she says, fighting back all the difficult, painful memories as she picks up the beladen tray again and thrusts it towards him. "Food. Don't say I never do anything for you."

-oOo-

After Harry Taylor, Grace promised herself she would never again get romantically involved with a colleague of any description. A stubborn vow that went double for police officers. _All_ police officers without exception. A vow she tenaciously upheld for years, until her life was summarily turned upside down on a hot summer evening after the successful conclusion of a long and particularly difficult investigation. Turned upside down by the mercurial, strong-willed fireball that was… _is_ … Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd. An exciting, dangerous fireball that once locked onto target recognised no obstacles, personal or professional, but simply blazed its way straight through them with a strange mixture of arrogance, charm, and implacable determination.

Now, with all the tumult of pain and passion allegedly well behind them, Grace certainly has a few lingering regrets, but being brave enough and obstinate enough to take the time and trouble to help repair and cement their relationship – in and out of work – is not one of them. Against all the odds, despite some difficult, dangerous moments and some truly spectacular arguments, their private and professional connection has somehow endured, and she genuinely believes that means something to them both. Their long association seems to have always been about transition – from strangers to colleagues, colleagues to friends, friends to lovers, and finally the hardest and most painful change of all, from bruised, wary ex-lovers back to productive colleagues and the ridiculously clichéd 'just good friends'.

She's still sitting on the wide, comfortable bed, her back against the headboard as she ponders. Boyd is dozing again, unconsciously curled towards her, his head almost resting against her thigh, and she can clearly see how potentially dangerous the situation is. She knows she should leave. She knows the enormous risk she is running with every minute that she stays. It's not about him or about her, it's about _them_ , and the strange, unpredictable alchemy that exists between them. What has been there from the start will _always_ be there in some shape or form, she's long accepted that, but sometimes it's extremely difficult to maintain the cool, clear perspective she needs for her own safety and peace of mind. She knows she doesn't want him back in her life in _that_ way. She firmly _tells_ herself she doesn't want him back in her life in that way. Boyd is a good friend; he is a colleague. Anything else… just doesn't work, and any foolish notion of it belongs firmly in the past.

Besides, Grace reflects, time may have passed, but nothing has really changed. They still have to work together. She still has far more in her life than just her career, her research, and her books, and he is still the same impatient, difficult, highly-strung man who works far too hard and for far too many hours. She still wants all the things it's simply not in his nature to offer, and he's still every bit as impetuous, angry and dysfunctional as he ever was.

But she knows that the deep, instinctive mutual attraction is still there, and that it continues to create a very powerful temptation. A temptation that is sharpened now by the insidious memories of all the exciting nights they spent together in the very bed on which she is sitting… and some of those exceptionally vivid memories are still very potent indeed.

-oOo-

The light in the room has slowly bled away as Saturday afternoon has become Saturday evening, and Grace has closed the heavy curtains and switched on one of the bedside lamps. She's sitting on the bed again now, right on the very edge this time, both her feet planted firmly on the floor. Beyond her, Boyd is now awake, propped up against a tumbling mound of pillows, a faint sheen of clammy sweat visible on his pale forehead.

"Stay," he repeats into the heavy silence that has fallen.

Grace is about to shake her head again, but something stops her. Just a sudden whim, perhaps. This time instead of refusing outright, she says in a mild tone, "Let's be absolutely clear about this, shall we? I'm _not_ going to sleep with you, Boyd."

"Dear God, break it to me gently," he replies, starting to cough again. After a moment he recovers enough to continue, "That wasn't actually what I meant; and anyway, do I bloody look like I'm currently any sort of threat to your virtue?"

"Put it this way," Grace says, wondering what on earth she's saying and why, "I don't recall you ever failing to… rise to the occasion."

Unapologetically juvenile about such things despite his age, Boyd smirks in delighted reply, but the complacent expression fades fast. It's replaced by something almost like resignation as he tries, "Please…?"

The quiet plea is a surprise. Curious, Grace studies him for a long moment before asking, "Why?"

He frowns, clearly perplexed by her reply. "Because you're my friend, and I want you to? Because I feel as rough as a dog, and I don't want to be on my own tonight? Why the hell do you think? There's no hidden agenda, Grace."

She looks away, not willing to expend the emotional effort required to hold his challenging gaze. "I really don't think it would be… appropriate."

"' _Appropriate_ '?" Boyd echoes. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

She knows when he's joking and when he's genuinely tetchy. The irritable tone of his response indicates he is heading rapidly for the latter. She has no intention of wasting any more of her time arguing with him. "Boyd."

His expression changes again, becomes heavy, sulky. "Fine. No problem. Piss off home, then."

"Stop behaving like a petulant child," Grace orders, her voice far sharper than it needs to be. She's never been afraid to chastise him, despite his quick temper and formidable reputation, and it's a strength that has served her well over all the long years they've known each other. "You're a grown man, for heaven's sake."

It's a risky strategy, but it seems to pay off. A reluctant grin starts to appear, quickly increasing in strength and wickedness. "Oh, Grace – and I thought you said you weren't looking?"

It's foolhardy at best, but for one risky moment she dares to play along. "If you remember, I merely accused you of being ridiculously childish. I never said anything about not looking."

The arch, dangerous grin intensifies even more, and the deep brown eyes glint at her. "So, you _were_ looking?"

Her reply is a waspish, "I've seen it all before, remember?"

"And…?"

He never knows when to stop. _Never_. Exasperated, Grace shakes her head and says, "And… this is _exactly_ why I'm not spending the night in your house, Boyd."

The bright spark of amusement vanishes. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I am," Grace confirms. She stands up and looks down at him. "But if you promise to behave yourself, I _might_ come back at some point tomorrow just to make sure you're still in the land of the living."

She expects another tantrum, expects him to argue and storm, but to her surprise he gives in and acquiesces. "Okay."

Certain that she is doing the right thing – for both of them – Grace heads towards the open bedroom door. Over her shoulder, she says, "Be good. 'Night, Boyd."

There's a sour grumble of complaint as he settles, but he raises his hand in a grudging farewell gesture. All the way down the stairs she can hear him coughing, possibly for effect, possibly not. But she doesn't turn back.

-oOo-

Safely back on her own territory, Grace sleeps well when the time comes, but no matter how much her dreams slowly twist and turn, they inevitably include Boyd. The past and the present entwine languidly with imagination and fantasy, fragments of real memories becoming distorted into unsettlingly sensual shapes. Intimate moments and midnight kisses, both real and illusory. Heat and passion. The well-remembered smell and taste of him. Things that happened and things that didn't. When she wakes to find her high-ceilinged bedroom full of brilliant morning sunlight, she immediately remembers isolated flashes of those unnerving dreams and she can't suppress a quiet groan of annoyance and frustration. Damn the bloody man yet _again_ – he doesn't leave her in peace even in her dreams.

" _Why?"_ Grace had asked him, not just the previous day, but once before, in the sultry summer heat of a perfect August evening.

She remembers his unrepentant grin, remembers the wicked amusement dancing in his eyes. Remembers his deep voice saying smoothly, _"Because I want you, Grace… And you want me..."_

And she _had_ wanted him. Did want him. _Does_ want him.

Damn.

-oOo-

Unsurprisingly, he's fast asleep when she walks quietly back into his bedroom. Sprawled out across a large proportion of the wide bed, supine and almost spread-eagled. There is snuffling, wheezing, and gentle snoring, hardly the most erotic combination, but there is also something infuriatingly endearing about the way he's so relaxed and so oblivious to everything around him, including her. Settling on the edge of the bed and nobly ignoring the strong, immature desire to poke him hard in the ribs, Grace says, "Boyd? _Boyd_."

The quiet snoring fades to a stop. Opening his eyes, he manages, "Hmm…?"

"It's nearly lunchtime," she informs him. "I think you should try getting up."

"Already up," is the mumbled, semi-coherent reply. It's accompanied by a shameless if brief and weary grin.

"So predictable," Grace scolds him, but though she's caustic she can't fault his initiative. She forces herself not to give in to the unworthy impulse to look for any tell-tale tenting of the bedclothes that might help verify his claim. It seems that however unwell he is, his robust libido is still every bit as healthy as it ever was.

Boyd yawns and scratches at his untrimmed beard. "Great. I'm not getting laid, but I _am_ getting nagged… How is that fair?"

Grace ignores the – presumably rhetorical – question. Choosing her words with care because she is an intelligent and resourceful woman who has no intention of making the same foolish mistake twice, she says, "I'm going downstairs to make lunch. _You_ are going to wait for me to leave the room, and _then_ you are going to get out of bed and go and have a shower. After that, you're going to get dressed, and then come and join me in the kitchen. Questions?"

"None," he says, but the uncharacteristic meekness of his reply is belied by the knowing look he gives her.

-oOo-

In all honesty, despite a certain natural flair for it, Grace does not enjoy cooking. Mostly, she looks upon it as a necessary evil that's best done quickly and efficiently, and then forgotten about until the next time. And in that, as in so much else, she and Boyd are complete opposites. He does not regard cooking as a chore that can't be avoided – he's quite content to live almost exclusively on takeaways and restaurant fare and forgo cooking altogether – but given half a chance, like a lot of men she's encountered, he has considerable nascent delusions of culinary grandeur. The moment he arrives in the kitchen, a tall, long-limbed figure clad in well-worn jeans and a lightweight grey cashmere sweater, Grace fixes him with a stern glare and says, " _Don't_ interfere."

Boyd holds up his hands, palms towards her. The gesture is placatory, but the tone of his voice is petulant. "Jesus… Remind me, whose damned house is this?"

Grace maintains her icy glare. "I'm quite happy to go home and leave you to fend for yourself again, you know."

"I don't doubt it," he says, and for a moment she thinks she detects a hollow note in his voice. Perhaps she isn't the only one who's been morosely dwelling on the sort of memories best left undisturbed. He wanders towards the back door, hands now thrust deep in pockets, and for a second or two she's back in that entrancing, dizzying summer not too long ago when there were so many new, exciting things to learn about each other. The fights and arguments – just petty squabbles to start with – didn't begin in earnest until winter really started to bite. Even then, she remembers, they were still far too preoccupied with each other to question whether there were too many external pressures, or whether they were simply too different in too many ways. But ultimately –

Boyd breaks into her reverie with a righteous, "Anyway, who looked after _you_ that time we went to the coast and you ended up with bloody food poisoning?"

Grace winces, recalling the horrific weekend concerned. Shellfish for supper on the Friday night, quickly followed by hours of living hell. Even now, several years on, her stomach churns uneasily just at the thought. For her, the intended romantic getaway had eventually been a long, mortifying purgatory of truly horrendous proportions. Give him his due, though, instead of leaving her alone in their hotel room for the duration, Boyd – having wisely stuck with the steak that fateful evening – had stoically weathered most of the nightmare with her, his inappropriate dark humour tempered by a compassionate sort of practicality that had taught her more about the fundamental nature of the man than she'd ever learned working alongside him. Tired, embarrassed and thoroughly miserable, she'd needed his steady, no-nonsense approach to the unpleasant disaster to make it through the weekend with even a shred of her dignity intact. Back in the present, she's forced to admit, "You did."

"Thank you."

They never talk about any of it, she realises. The love and the laughter, the excitement and the passion. Rarely acknowledge anything about that reckless, unwise chapter in the long, unfinished book of their shared personal history, despite all the continuing rumours and eager office gossip that swirl around them. Perhaps it's the only way to preserve the close rapport they require to continue working together with any degree of success. Busying herself with crockery, Grace orders, "Sit down before you fall down. You look exhausted."

Boyd obeys without argument, subsiding heavily onto one of the sleek modern stools lined up along the kitchen's granite-topped breakfast bar. He shakes his head. "I don't remember the last time I was this bloody ill."

"Stress," she tells him, extracting the necessary cutlery from a drawer. It's been difficult for them both since… Not wanting to think of Mel or Frankie, or the pain and grief of adjustment, she continues, "Your immune system's probably shot to bits. You should take some of that time off you're owed, go somewhere warm and sunny, and just relax for a couple of weeks."

The look he gives her in response is derisive. "Sounds like great fun."

"No-one says you have to go alone," she points out. It's a form of masochism, the too-frequent desire to remind herself just how fond of attractive female company he is. The bitter thought strengthens her will to add a sharp, "Go through your little black book. I'm sure you'll eventually find someone misguided enough to go with you."

He can't fail to hear the tart edge to the words, she's sure, but he looks and sounds unruffled as he replies, "If only it were that easy, Grace."

He has a point, she supposes, returning to the stove. He's handsome, well-spoken, and capable of great charm when he can be bothered to expend the effort, but it doesn't take much for the gentlemanly façade to slip and expose the darker, less pleasant facets of his character. It's no secret to anyone that his… liaisons… don't tend to last long, and for just that reason. Stirring the contents of the largest saucepan, she says, "Well, anyway… you can't put off taking some leave indefinitely, Boyd. It's not good for you – or for the rest of us."

"Pasta's boiling over," he tells her.

Turning the gas down a fraction, Grace shoots another glare in his direction. "I told you – _don't_ interfere."

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

Intractable as ever, Boyd scowls at her and says, "I am _not_ going back to bed, Grace."

She shrugs, feigns complete indifference. "Suit yourself."

As he gets up from his barstool he has a glassy-eyed, feverish look about him again that suggests he's already done too much, but he stubbornly insists, "I need to get my strength back. Spencer – "

" – is coping perfectly well without you," she interrupts, watching as he stops, sways for a moment and has to steady himself on the kitchen counter. Damned stupid man never has been able to recognise when it's time to give in and surrender. Keep forging forward against the odds and never mind the consequences, that's the Peter Boyd way. Thick-skulled tenacity coupled with very little regard for anything that might dare to stand in his way, be it an armed criminal or his own human frailty. Grace shakes her head. "I haven't wasted half of my weekend running around after you just so you can push yourself into a relapse by behaving like an idiot, Boyd."

"I hate being ill," he growls, his shoulders visibly slumping.

Deciding to tread a conciliatory path, she offers, "Well, the worst is obviously over, and if you're sensible about things, you should be fully recovered in a few days."

"A few _days_?"

Narrowing her eyes at the level of outrage clear in his voice, she studies him across the width of the long, white-walled kitchen. "I'm going to assume, for your sake, that the patently _ridiculous_ notion of even thinking about attempting to go back to work tomorrow hasn't crossed your tiny mind for a single moment."

He looks a little sheepish. "Well…"

"Oh, don't be so bloody stupid," she snaps, refusing to analyse the underlying reason for her sudden surge of anger. "You really are your own worst enemy, Boyd. What you need to do this week is _rest_. Unless the idea of ending up with pneumonia or something appeals to you?"

"Not greatly," he admits, "but – "

"I'm warning you," she tells him, not bothering to hide the steel in her tone, "if you so much as _think_ of taking a step into the building this week, I'll…"

"Yes?" Boyd prompts after a moment, seizing on the way her words trail away as she tries to think of an appropriate and enforceable penalty.

"Shut up," she retorts. As ripostes go, it may not be witty or clever, but it seems to be effective. "If you won't go back to bed, at least go in the other room and lie down on the sofa. Honestly, you're a worse patient than my niece's son, and he's _six_."

Boyd's chin lifts a defiant fraction. "I don't remember asking you to nurse me."

"Oh, so you _didn't_ call me yesterday practically begging for my help?"

"To bring in supplies, yes. To nag me half to death, no."

"You don't get to pick and choose, Boyd."

"So it appears."

"Sofa," Grace orders, pointing towards the door to the hall. "Now. Or you can damn well go back to suffering on your own."

He looks mutinous as he says, "Hang on, did we accidentally get married when I wasn't paying attention, or something?"

"Heaven forbid," she snorts. Summoning an even frostier glare, she adds, "Well? What's it to be?"

Boyd glowers back at her, evidently weighing his limited options. Then, just as she's about to turn her back on him, he pushes himself into reluctant movement. "Oh, fine. Anything to bloody shut you up."

Inwardly congratulating herself on a minor victory, Grace dutifully trails after him, not at all convinced he won't collapse _en route_. Which, she thinks, recalling how heavy he is, could be something of a problem for them both if it happens.

-oOo-

Despite his protestations, Boyd sleeps soundly for the better part of the rest of the afternoon, leaving her to read through the stack of paperwork she remembered to put in the car in case of just such an eventuality. Reports that need reading and annotating, forms that need completing and signing. Mundane stuff, all of it, but a good use of her time. It doesn't occur to her to leave, nor to wonder why. She makes coffee, returns to her armchair and carries on working until it starts to become difficult to read in the dropping light levels. Leaning to put the papers she's holding back into her bag, Grace suddenly realises she's being regarded with silent interest from the sofa. How long he's been awake, she doesn't know, but he looks reasonably alert. Covering her surprise, she inquires, "Feeling any better?"

"Maybe." Laconic and unhelpful. A slight frown is followed by, "What's that?"

"Lab report on Rob Dyer's clothing."

Sitting up, he asks, "The Channing case?"

"Mm," she agrees. "Do you – "

"We need to interview Reynolds again," he interrupts. "If he was really – "

"Stop right there," she tells him, forestalling the disconnected, complicated discourse on the stalled investigation that she knows is coming. "Not everything revolves around work, Boyd. When I said you needed to rest, I meant it."

He scowls across the room at her. "Doing nothing… it drives me bloody crazy, Grace."

"I know," she concedes with a degree of fellow-feeling, "but look at it this way – if you're starting to get bored then you're definitely on the mend. Do you want a drink, or a sandwich, or anything, before I go?"

The irritable scowl becomes a solid, interrogative frown. "You're going?"

Knowing he will object, but resolute, Grace nods. "Soon. Believe it or not, I have my own stuff to do, too."

"Washing? Ironing?"

Knowing he's trying to needle her, she favours him with a lofty smile. "Amongst other far more exciting things, yes."

Boyd's steady gaze sharpens. "Oh?"

It's really very easy to pique his curiosity, she reflects. Any suggestion that there may be something going on in her private life that he doesn't know about never fails to capture his interest. Getting to her feet, she says, "I do have a life outside of work, you know."

His response is quick. "So I've heard. Philip, isn't it?"

" _Patrick_ ," she corrects, wondering how he came by the information, "and he's just a friend."

"I see."

"Not," she adds, ignoring his knowing tone, "that it's anything to do with you."

"Not anymore, anyway."

Grace can't prevent the instinctive frown caused by the pointed words. "If I didn't know you better, Boyd, I'd be tempted to think there was something you wanted to say."

She expects him to grunt and look away, but he doesn't. He maintains eye contact as he replies, "Maybe there is."

Sitting down on the arm of the chair she's only just vacated, Grace folds her arms across her chest. It's defensive and she knows it, but she needs the meagre psychological protection it affords. Long-suffering, she demands, "Well?"

Leaning back against the sofa cushions, he says, "Wyatt, isn't it? Patrick Wyatt? The guy who used to run the ex-offenders' charity based at Juniper Hall?"

Grace nods, fighting the stirring of a strong sense of unease as she realises he knows far more than she might have expected. He's been asking questions in the right places, it seems. "That's right. I had no idea you were so well-informed."

"Friend of a friend," Boyd says, tone dismissive. "You do know that he's… Well, let's just say he has a certain… reputation."

Relaxing, she allows a slight smile. In almost every way he's considerably more conservative in his views than she is. Always has been. Conservative, but not intolerant. He may complain vociferously about 'political correctness' when some petty new diktat handed down from New Scotland Yard annoys him, but he has a strong egalitarian streak that Grace has always viewed as one of his main redeeming features. Hiding a touch of wry amusement, she says, "Ah, I see. You're trying – rather clumsily – to ask me if I know he's bisexual, I assume?"

Boyd tries, and visibly fails, to hide a wince. Clearing his throat, he replies, "Something like that, yeah."

"I wasn't aware that it was a secret," Grace tells him, thinking of the intelligent, exuberant and happily self-confident retired man in question. "Besides, I told you, he's just a friend, so why I should actually need it brought to my attention… Unless you're suffering from one of your irritating periodic bouts of ridiculous over-protectiveness?"

He doesn't rise to the bait, just says, "I've heard he's not as… trustworthy… as he might be."

" _Because_ he's bisexual?" she inquires with deliberately raised eyebrows.

Boyd frowns at the implied rebuke. "No, Grace; _because_ apparently he has an unfortunate habit of being somewhat… indiscreet… about the more intimate details of his relationships."

"Which might concern me if he was anything more than a close friend, but since he's not…" Letting the sentence trail away, she studies him intently for a few long seconds trying to work out what he's not saying. Then she shrugs. "All right, you win. I'll bite. Why are you interested?"

Picking at the fringes of the thick blanket still draped over his legs, Boyd does not look at her as he responds, "I'm not allowed to be concerned for the welfare of an old friend?"

Resisting the urge to sigh, Grace says, "Of _course_ you are, but that's not the answer to my question, is it? What is it with you, Boyd? I'm not supposed to ever look at another man again because you and I once… you know."

He looks up, expression unreadable. "What? Had a bit of a fling?"

"If that's how you want to describe it, yes." Unfolding her arms, Grace shakes her head. "I _knew_ this was a mistake. Coming over here again."

"I just…" Boyd seems to flounder, recovers with a gruff, "It's none of my business."

"You're right, it's not." Standing up again, she says, "You and me – it's ancient history, Boyd."

"Is it?" he asks, his sudden intensity startling her. "Is it really?"

Caught by surprise, she hears herself counter, "Well, isn't it?"

"Sometimes," Boyd says slowly, a slight frown drawing his brows together, "it doesn't feel like it. Or am I wrong?"

Trying to ignore the unwanted quickening of her pulse, Grace ignores the dangerous question. Instead, she says, "Do you need anything before I go?"

-oOo-

It was hot in London that summer, the temperature well into the mid-thirties by the beginning of August. Grace remembers it well. Far too hot to sleep, much too hot to be at work. Remembers how they all sweltered down in the bunker with its lack of external windows and doors. Everyone irritable and bad-tempered, the sweat sticking their clothes to their skins. Unbearably hot even late in the evening at the riverside bar the team adjourned to in celebratory mood following the news that Graham Lowry had been found guilty on all three of the counts of murder he'd been charged with. Still much too hot walking back to Boyd's car with him, laughing at his buoyant good-humour, and then –

They ended up in this very kitchen, she thinks, as she mechanically butters another slice of bread. As the minutes had ticked by the coffee had become spirits, and the familiar idle flirtation had become... No. Don't think about it. _Any_ of it.

"I meant it," Boyd's voice announces behind her. "You don't have to believe me, but I meant it."

Refusing to look round at him, Grace continues to prepare the cheese sandwich he didn't ask for. "I know you did."

"And?" Impatient now. "C'mon, Grace, don't go quiet on me – it's always a bad sign."

"What do you want me to say?" she asks, still not looking round. Self-preservation more than fear. "We tried it and it didn't work. We both accepted that. At least, I thought we did."

Boyd moves to stand at her side, leaving a small but calculated distance between them. "At the time. But maybe I'm finally coming to the reluctant conclusion that my… private life… is even more difficult _without_ you than it was _with_ you."

Under other circumstances she'd be tempted to laugh at his ingenuous tactlessness. Instead, she asks, "Am I supposed to be flattered by that unwilling declaration?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"Not remotely." Deciding to risk a quick sideways look at him, she says, "You know you're only saying all this because you've been shut up on your own in this house for days, don't you? You're lonely, and you've had too much time to brood on things."

Boyd shakes his head. "It's not that."

"Isn't it?" she asks, cutting the sandwich in half and putting down the knife. "You've said it yourself often enough – you can't cope with boredom. You always have to find some kind of distraction."

"You've certainly always been that, Grace."

"A distraction?"

"Yeah." He sighs, turns to lean back against the counter. She's aware of him watching her as he says, "It wasn't all bad, though, was it?"

"No," Grace admits, not prepared to lie, "it wasn't. And if we didn't still have to work together, well maybe there would be a case for thinking about trying again. But we do, and that's something neither of us wants to change, is it?"

"Surely there's – "

"The CCU is your baby, Boyd," she interrupts, cutting him off, "and you're never going to give it up for any reason without a fight. Likewise, I love my job, and I believe wholeheartedly in what we do. I suppose you could have me replaced, of course – that's your right as head of the unit."

His reply is instant. "That's… not a viable option."

She nods. "Good. I certainly wouldn't advise you to try it."

"Some people," Boyd says, the words coming slowly, "they just get under your skin, Grace. You can't predict it, can't fight it. You just wake up one day and realise that they're there, part of you, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"Hardly the most romantic speech I've ever heard."

"I'm not a romantic sort of man."

Glancing at him, she says, "I beg to differ."

One elegant eyebrow arches a fraction. "Oh?"

Memories. Too many damn memories. For a split-second she wonders what he would do if she leaned towards him and pressed her lips gently to his. Wonders if he would freeze, or put his arms around her and pull her hard against him the way he used to. The ridiculous urge to find out is incredibly powerful. Heart suddenly pounding, Grace forces herself to look away, and the reckless, dangerous moment is lost.

"Look," she says, taking a deep breath and handing him the plate bearing the just-made sandwich, "you and me, we're like oil and water. We don't mix. Not really. It's just one of those things. It doesn't matter how much we wish things were different."

"So you do?" he says, immediately putting the plate aside.

"What?"

"Wish things were different."

Grace shakes her head. "I didn't say that."

"As good as."

"Don't do this, Boyd," she tells him, but quietly, calmly. "It's not fair on either of us. You're not well, and you're lonely. A week from now, you'll be back at work, you'll be busy, and you'll have completely forgotten about everything you _think_ you're feeling now."

The dark eyes regard her with steady intensity. "You think so, do you?"

"I _know_ so."

"Because you're a psychologist?" he asks, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

Grace shakes her head. "Because I know _you_."

Boyd stares straight at her, then says, "Well, there's nothing more to say, then, is there?"

"No," she says firmly, "there's not. Not about this."

"Fine," he tells her, and she doesn't miss the way his tone has hardened. "Well, you've got things to do, apparently, so you'd better go home and bloody get on with them."

Struck by the urge to soothe him, she ventures, "If I honestly thought there was some way we could – "

"Just go," Boyd says.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

"You're an idiot," Marion says without preamble, her disgusted expression matching her tone of voice. "For God's sake, Grace, for the last three years all I've heard from you is _Peter Boyd this_ and _Peter Boyd that_ , and how you think you made a terrible mistake calling it all off – and now you turn up on my doorstep and tell me this!"

"Sorry," Grace murmurs, staring into the depths of her half-drunk coffee. She doesn't know whether she is, or not. Marion Lacey's been a good friend and trusted confidant for well over twenty-five years, and though they don't see as much of each other as they used to when they worked in adjacent buildings at the same secure psychiatric hospital, they're still close, still able to share anything and everything at a moment's notice. Glancing round the other woman's homely, cream-coloured kitchen in search of a distraction, she finds none. "I was on my way home and I thought…"

"You're always welcome to pop in for a coffee and a chat, you know that," Marion assures her, "but I honestly can't believe I'm hearing this. You're clearly still in love with the damned man even after all this time and _you turned him down_?"

"Actually, I don't know _how_ I feel about him – " Grace begins.

"Nonsense!"

" – and he wasn't exactly _offering_. More… just rambling. Trying to remind me how good things were when they were good."

An impatient shrug. "Well? They were, weren't they? At least, you always looked suspiciously like a woman who'd just had a damn good – "

More because it's expected than out of genuine outrage, she interjects a sharp, "Marion!"

"What?" The other woman makes a great show of rolling her eyes. "Oh, sorry. I forgot, we're not supposed to even think about sex at our time of life, much less _talk_ about it. And as for actually _doing_ it…"

Frowning, Grace objects, "It wasn't just about sex, you know."

"No, I'm sure it was also a deeply spiritual meeting of minds," is the quick and sarcastic rejoinder. "You'd _definitely_ still have fallen for him even if he wasn't sickeningly handsome, six-foot, and built like an ex-prop forward."

"You make me sound so shallow," she complains, unable to mount a halfway convincing defence. There's more to it – so much more – but she can't deny there's some truth in the veiled accusation. Nor that there is… _was_ … something rather flattering about being able to catch and hold the attention of such an attractive man.

"I've met him," Marion reminds her, "and I've known you for long enough to know that he's _exactly_ your type."

Defensive, she grumbles, "I wasn't aware that I _had_ a type."

"Oh, you do, Grace. You know you do. And he's _it_."

Uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going, Grace attempts to divert it. "Well, anyway – "

"You like the difficult, dysfunctional ones," Marion continues, obviously determined to say what she thinks. "The wild, unreliable ones with a twinkle in their eye. The ones that are absolutely guaranteed to break your heart. You don't look twice at the decent, ordinary ones like my David, do you? You never have and you never will."

Not sure if she's offended, Grace mutters, "Thanks."

"It's an observation, not a criticism." A short, thoughtful pause, then, "Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps part of the attraction – a _big_ part of the attraction – is his… unattainability?"

"No," Grace says, barely having to think about it.

"Hm." Marion does not sound convinced. "You like him rather more in the abstract than you actually do when he's an infuriating three-dimensional presence right in front of you. That's what _I_ think."

"Much as I hate to admit it, you might have something of a point there." She considers the idea. It's novel and not exactly palatable, but actually could make some kind of sense. Maybe. "He fascinates me," she admits, "but God, most of the time he's bloody hard work."

Sympathetic rather than smug, Marion nods. "So you've said. Often. He's certainly pretty, Grace, I'll give you that. Charming, too. But the same can be said for dozens of ornamental features. Trust me, you're probably far better off just gazing at him than – "

"So, why do I feel so unsettled?" Grace cuts in before her friend can finish her sentence. "Why do I feel like I've just made yet another big mistake?"

"Because you're stupid," her old friend supplies promptly. "Stupid enough to still be in love with him. To still want him."

Grimacing, Grace picks up her mug. "I was rather afraid you were going to say something like that."

Marion gets to her feet, her movements brisk as she moves towards the sink saying, "Sort yourself out, Grace. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but after all this time you really need to either get him out of your system completely and move on, or…"

"'Or'?"

Another roll of the eyes. "Surely the alternative's bloody obvious?"

-oOo-

"I don't know what to do," Grace murmurs to the Thames, but it offers her no answers. Its glossy night-time surface is dark and choppy, accentuated by dozens of reflected lights, and something about its implacable indifference to the hundreds of thousands of human lives living alongside it soothes her. Boyd, she knows, would be horrified if he knew she was walking alone along such a deserted stretch of its north bank so late at night, but the apprehension clawing inside her has nothing to do with where she is and how vulnerable she might be to one of the big city's dangerous predators. It's more cerebral and intangible than that, despite the nauseous way it twists in her gut.

He thinks he wants her back. And maybe he actually does, at least for now. Maybe he knows as well as she does that despite everything they said, everything they agreed, there was never any real… closure… for them.

 _Closure_. How he hates that word. That, and so many others that are her stock-in-trade.

It didn't work before. It won't work now.

Oh, it might for a while, Grace acknowledges to herself. Probably would, in fact. At first. But then all the cracks would start to show again, and they'd be back exactly where they were before – stuck in a bitter purgatory of incessant petty arguments and pointless one-upmanship, both at work and at home.

 _She_ could make all the necessary compromises. Couldn't she?

But Boyd won't. Won't even try. Probably.

She can't do it. Not to herself, not to him. Not again.

He's exciting, though, and intelligent, and funny. Kind, too, in his own way. He knows how to make her laugh, knows how to shake her out of the deep introspective moods that take hold of her far too frequently. Knows how to make her feel like the most desirable woman alive, too. But he's also prickly and impatient, and too often given to displaying a boorish disregard for the people around him. Quick-tempered, easy to rile, difficult to understand. Plagued by his own demons, too, ones that are never too far away. The abandoned wife, the missing son…

Walking back into his arms would be a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake.

She wishes he was here with her, staring out at the endless, fascinating river.

Wishes so many things could be different. Wishes everything between them was so much easier.

Wishing won't make a damn bit of difference to any of it, and Grace knows it.

It's gradually getting colder, the temperature dropping as the night really begins to take hold, and she shivers by the water for a few minutes more, her mind still churning as her head and heart pull in opposite directions.

-oOo-

"I still have a front door key," she says, in response to the sleepy, startled look the just-awakened Boyd gives her as she hesitates for a second in the doorway before steeling herself to walk into the living room.

"Yes, you do," he agrees, prying himself into a more upright position. The effort required makes him cough, and without a single word Grace picks up the half-empty glass of water abandoned on the glass-topped coffee table and hands it to him. It seems to help, and after several cautious swallows he's able to croak, "If you've come to give it back…"

"I haven't." Taking up position near the unused fireplace, she watches him as he leans back, plainly exhausted. He still looks far from well, she reflects, despite his earlier tenacity. Hollow-cheeked and pallid. Taking a deep breath, she says, "If I said the idea of trying again held absolutely no appeal, I'd be lying."

Ill or not, he pounces immediately. "But…?"

Allowing the ghost of a wan smile at his acute perception, she continues, " _But_ … we're just not right for each other, Boyd, and deep down we both know it."

Stubborn to the last, he shakes his head. "You're wrong."

Intrigued by how just emphatic his words are, she says, "Oh? Enlighten me."

"I don't need to, Grace. You know what the damn problem is as well as I do, and it's not a fundamental lack of compatibility."

"Work," she states, resisting the strong urge to sigh. She's thought about it so often that it seems trite. A convenient excuse for not following her heart. It's not, though. Is it?

"The one thing that apparently neither of us is prepared to sacrifice."

It's the unpleasant truth, Grace realises. Neither of them will even consider leaving the CCU for the sake of the relationship they might possibly be able to have without its dark shadow looming over them. Unconsciously perching on the very edge of the nearest chair, she wonders aloud, "What does that say about us, do you think?"

"As individual people, or…?"

"I don't know," she confesses with a deep sigh. "Oh, I really don't know, Boyd. I don't think I know much about _any_ of it anymore. Sometimes I think…"

"Yes?" he presses.

Summoning courage, she forces out, "Sometimes I think it might be worth it. Worth all the fights, all the pain, just to have a little more time together… and then I think that I must be crazy. That even thinking about it, much less seriously _considering_ it, is nothing but abject stupidity."

"Of course, there is another possibility," Boyd says, very much in the dogged, cautious manner of a man who is thinking his words through slowly and carefully before he says them, "one we don't seem to be considering."

"Oh? What's that?"

"That things _wouldn't_ go wrong. That maybe, just _maybe_ , we've both learned something from last time."

"I wish I could believe that, I really do."

"But you don't."

"No," Grace admits, "and neither do you, not really."

"So, what _do_ we do?" Boyd demands after a pause, a sudden, frustrated spark of temper appearing. "Just carry on burying our heads in the sand, and keep doing this fucking ridiculous _we're-nothing-but-just-good-friends_ thing when we both know deep down that it's complete bollocks?"

"What's the alternative?" she challenges, every bit as angry with the seemingly-impossible situation as he is. "We keep going over the same old ground, time and time again until we drive ourselves bloody mad? We say to hell with the consequences and jump back into bed together, knowing what's bound to happen? Tell me what on earth we're supposed to do next, Boyd, because I'm damned if I can work out what the answer is when we both feel…"

He pounces on her hesitation. "What? Feel _what_ , Grace?"

"Feel… the way we do," she finishes lamely. "Look, I came back because I need to know that you understand _why_ I can't… _won't_ … just shove all my reservations aside and let you march straight back into my private life on a whim."

"It's not on a whim."

"Oh, it _is_ , Boyd," she contradicts. "You don't want me cluttering up your tidy, organised life. Not really. You're just lonely and a little vulnerable at the moment. But that will change the moment you're back at work, and then I'd just be a… messy complication. An annoyance you don't have the time, energy, or patience to deal with."

"Grace – "

"No," she insists, ignoring the growl of protest in his voice. "You were right back then when you accused me of not being able to keep things neatly separated the way you can. I can't. Not to the degree you expect. I can't do it, Boyd, and I don't even want to try. Your way isn't _my_ way."

"Did I ever say it had to be?" he demands, getting somewhat unsteadily to his feet. "Why do you always have to make everything so bloody difficult, Grace? Why do you have to analyse everything to within an inch of its life? Why can't you just... I don't know… do what your heart tells you, or something?"

"Because I'm not like _you_ ," she snaps at him. "I'm not as reckless as you are. I don't refuse to consider the consequences and just blindly go ahead and make split-second decisions about things. You _know_ that."

"Well, what's the point of procrastinating?" Boyd asks, sounding far more puzzled than angry. "It never changes anything, does it?"

Trying to suppress her ever-increasing annoyance, she retorts, "It's more sensible than always acting on impulse, surely?"

He snorts in obvious derision. "In my experience, being sensible has very little to do with attraction."

"But it has," Grace insists, feeling a cold warning prickle run up and down her spine as he takes a deliberate step towards her. " _Attraction_ is what we feel, Boyd. _Sensible_ is how we deal with it."

Another step, and then another, both as firm and calculated as the first. "You talk too much; you really do."

"You always say that when you know I'm right."

Boyd's reaction is predictable. " _Screw_ being right or wrong. This isn't a fucking academic exercise, Grace, this is _real life_. Real life doesn't fit into neat little boxes, however much you'd like it to, and it doesn't obey nice, tidy rules. It just _is_."

"Stop," Grace orders as he takes another solid step towards her. It surprises her that he does. Holding up a hand, she says, "I'm not going to deny that I'm still attracted to you – what would be the bloody point? – but neither am I prepared to try deluding myself into believing that things between us could ever be anything other than _incredibly_ difficult. We have such different expectations, Boyd – we want completely different things."

"That's about the most clichéd thing you could possibly have said."

"Perhaps," she concedes with a slight nod. "Doesn't mean it's not true, though, does it?"

Boyd doesn't answer. Instead he surveys her steadily, thoughtfully, each tense second ticking past with agonising slowness. When she decides he's going to remain silent and opens her mouth to speak again, he says, "You really are going to walk away, aren't you?"

"Yes," she tells him, hoping she sounds calmer and steadier than she feels. "Not because I actually want to, or because I don't feel anything for you, but because it's the right thing to do for both of us."

The glare he gives her is flinty. "You don't get to make my decisions for me."

"I could say exactly the same thing to you."

He nods slowly, and some of the tension begins to leave his stance. "True."

For the first time in many, many hours, Grace also allows herself to relax a fraction. Cautious and quiet, she asks, "So, that's it? We can put everything that's been said this weekend behind us and move on?"

His answering stare is flat. "If that's really what you want."

"It is," she says with far more conviction than she really feels. She expected more of a fight from him, hates herself for feeling a touch of disappointment at his sudden surrender. It's not like him, not at all. Maybe the uncharacteristic capitulation is because he's ill and tired, and simply can't summon the energy required to keep fighting. She's doing the right thing, though. Isn't she?

"I'm sorry," he says. At her quizzical look he adds, "For screwing things up, for not being able to compromise." A loose, almost dismissive shrug of his shoulders. "I know I'm not the easiest guy in the world to get along with, but for what it's worth, Grace, you really… did… mean something to me."

"Don't," she says, fighting a powerful, painful swell of mixed emotions that are intensified by his studied use of the past tense. "Please don't make this any more difficult than it already is, Peter."

He inclines his head forward a fraction. A half-nod of acknowledgement. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, and every bit as impassive as his expression. "I'll see you out."

The whole world is starting to splinter around her. At least, that's what it feels like. Trying to match his composure, Grace shakes her head. "There's no need."

"All right." Boyd holds out his hand, palm upwards. "Key."

It catches her by surprise, the blunt request. Startled and hurt, she says, "Boyd…"

His hand remains outstretched. "According to you, it's called moving on."

Staring at him, Grace begins to understand the true enormity of what's happening. Begins to understand that the weekend has become a catalyst; that events have conspired to bring them to a significant moment in their complicated relationship. A make or break moment, as her late mother would have called it.

She has a choice, she realises. A clear, simple choice. Stay, knowing all the unrelenting external pressures will almost certainly force them into making all the same mistakes again, sooner or later. Or hand him back his damned key and go, knowing that as she closes the front door behind her, she's also closing the metaphorical door that still stands ajar between them.

Boyd only sounds impossibly weary – not at all cruel or angry – as he prompts, "Well…?"

It isn't just about _them_ , either. It's about Spencer, Stella, Felix… about everyone in the CCU who will be affected if things between her and Boyd start to deteriorate again. Everyone who will have to cope with the bickering, the point-scoring, the bloody-minded refusal to listen to each other. Worse, the inevitable sulking and cold silences, followed by raised voices and door-slamming.

It might not be like that, second time around.

It will be.

Working together and sleeping together – it just doesn't work. Not for them.

But…

No. There can't be a 'but'.

She can prevent it all. It's easy. All she has to do is reach into her bag, find the key he's asking for and hand it back. Not a difficult thing to do at all.

Grace looks up to find that Boyd's still standing in front of with his hand extended. Watching. Waiting.

"I can't do it," she says. It's both victory and defeat. Just another contradiction in a relationship characterised by them.

He doesn't ask her what she means, and she's glad. Isn't even sure she knows. His hand drops away, though, as if he finally grasps something of how torn she is.

When he speaks, he sounds tired. Tired and beaten. "Oh, Grace. Just… come here, will you?"

And she does, glad when he puts his arms around her without saying another word. It's not the answer. Not even _an_ answer. But it's something.

 _– the end –_

 _How I wish, how I wish you were here.  
We're just two lost souls  
_ _Swimming in a fish bowl,  
_ _Year after year,  
_ _Running over the same old ground.  
_ _What have we found?  
_ _The same old fears.  
_ _Wish you were here._

\- Pink Floyd, _Wish You Were Here_


End file.
